


At Least it's a Wolf

by Eugeal



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugeal/pseuds/Eugeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Guy of Gisborne got his tattoo</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least it's a Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Almeno è un Lupo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601367) by [Eugeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugeal/pseuds/Eugeal). 



Guy of Gisborne cautiously drank another sip of wine and closed his eyes for a moment because he felt dizzy.  
During the last days of the crossing to get to the Holy Land, the sea had been very rough and he had spent the time lying in his cabin, too plagued by seasickness to even think about eating.  
Even after landing, that morning, he had not been able to eat anything, but he couldn't refuse the invitation of the other sheriff's men to drink with them.  
All those men were ruthless mercenaries, hardened by years and years of war and from the beginning they had looked down on him, believing he was too young and inexperienced to be in charge of that mission.  
“Are you too delicate to drink with us, master Guy?” One of the men called, ready to humiliate him and mock him, but Gisborne had stared at him defiantly and he had emptied his mug, knocking it on the table so it could be refilled.  
He knew that probably the next day he would feel lousy, but he couldn't allow the mercenaries not to respect him or the entire mission would be compromised.  
It was the first time that the sheriff had entrusted him with such an important mission, and Guy was determined not to disappoint him, although the idea of an attempt on the life of the king worried him.  
He didn't care of the sovereign, King Richard was absent a king who did not care about the welfare of his people and who preferred to fight in a distant land, but a regicide was a crime so enormous that, if he failed, to disappoint the sheriff would be the least of his problems.  
That thought led him to empty his mug again without waiting for the mercenaries to urge him to do it.  
One of the men laughed and he poured more wine, extending to him an arm covered with tattoos.  
Guy found himself staring at those intricate designs, enchanted by their complexity.  
Had he been more clearheaded, he would have merely observed them without commenting, but between the strong wine drunk on an empty stomach and the suffocating heat that he wasn't used to, his thoughts were confused and clouded.  
“What are them? Why do you paint your skin?” He asked, causing general laughter. Offended, Guy started to put his hand on the sword, but before he could pull it out, one of the men turned serious and he decided to answer him.  
“It's not painting, they are tattoos. These do not wash away, they are done puncturing the skin with a needle and putting ink into the wound. Once you do that, it stay forever, unless you cut away the skin, of course.”  
Guy looked at him, puzzled.  
“What's the sense of doing such a thing? That's stupid.”  
Some of the mercenaries glared at him, believing that they were offended by his words, but their leader stopped them with a simple wave of the hand.  
He grinned to himself: that young nobleman who had been assigned as their leader by the sheriff did not know that they had strict orders to obey him, otherwise their death would be certain and painful.  
It was clear that he had agreed to drink with them just to try to get their respect and obedience, not knowing that he might not have the first, but they were obliged to give him the second.  
And since they were forced to take orders from him, nothing forbade them to have some fun at his expense.  
“You have never been at war, are you?”  
Guy looked at him angrily.  
“Do you think I'm a coward?! I fought under the command of the sheriff and I am ready to risk my life for my lord!”  
“I don't doubt it. But you never fought in a war.”  
“What's the difference? Death is always the same, wherever you face it.”  
“Death, yes. The way you die, no.”  
The mercenary launched into a long and detailed list of all the horrors and tortures to which he happened to witness over the years, insisting on descriptions and exaggerating to make them more bloody and he had immensely fun to see the face of Guy becoming increasingly whiter until the young man was forced to run out to empty his stomach in the alley.  
The mercenaries laughed to see him out so hastily, ready to mock him on his return even if, before dawn, many of them would be reduced in the same conditions by dint of drinking, but their leader restrained their mirth. To mock Gisborne for drinking too much could be fun, but if they were careful about what they said, they could have a much better time at his own expense.  
When Guy staggered back, the mercenaries welcomed him back to the table with a few pungent jokes, but not too much, and their leader gave him another pitcher of wine.  
“Drink, there is nothing better to settle the stomach.” He said, patting him on the shoulder with force.  
Gisborne had serious doubts about it, but he had no intention of backing down and he thought that, if he got drunk, perhaps he would forget the horrible war scenarios described by the mercenary.  
He looked at him, remembering how that extremely unpleasant speech had begun.  
“You didn't tell me what have tattoos to do with all this.” Guy commented and the mercenary grinned.  
“You see, the point is this: sometimes the corpses of the fallen are so slaughtered that they are unrecognizable and tattoos are the only way to recognize them.”  
The mercenary looked at Guy: he turned pale again at those words and he looked ready to run back in the alley, but he didn't move and he just emptied his mug again. He seemed drunk enough to be ready to fall into their trap.  
The mercenary poured him another drink and he waited for Gisborne to bring the cup to his lips before turning to him again.  
“In my case, for example, if I were to be killed, my companions would recognize me by my tattoos and they might give me a decent burial. But that's not your case. Once your pretty face is ruined, no one could figure out who you are, and your body would remain to rot in the desert, devoured by birds.”  
Guy had a horrible vision of the hawk of the sheriff who pounced on him to tear pieces of flesh from his body and he let out a gasp of horror.  
“I don't want to die like this!”  
The mercenary placed his hand on his shoulder in a falsely friendly gesture and he smiled.  
“Then there is only one solution. Come with us.”  
  
Guy woke up wanting to be dead.  
Rarely he drank so much he got drunk, usually he preferred to maintain control of his actions, and feeling so bad the next morning was one of the other reasons for not doing so.  
Fortunately, his mission was not expected to begin for another two or three days: they had to wait for the right opportunity to infiltrate the camp of the king, dressed as Saracens. If he had to do it that morning, Guy would fail his mission even before starting it.  
His head was a mass of pulsating pain and his stomach hurt. Later he would attempt to eat something, he fasted for too many days and he was afraid he could weaken too much, but for the moment the thought of food sickened him.  
What he didn't understand was why he felt pain even on his right arm. He felt the skin burning as if it had been burned on the fire, but he couldn't remember at all to have injured himself.  
Indeed, he didn't remember almost anything of that night.  
He dragged himself out of bed and searched for the bowl to throw some water on his face. The sweltering heat of that place so far from England didn't help him to feel better.  
He froze in seeing the black design that stained the skin of his arm. Guy tried to rub the graceless drawing with some water, but he only got to feel more pain.  
He remembered suddenly vague memories of the speeches of the mercenaries from the night before, a confused nightmare composed of tales of torture, violence and tattoos.  
Guy watched the black ink that marked his skin and he knew it wouldn't go away anymore. If he tried, he vaguely remembered of having followed his men along the alleys of the city, until they reached the hut of a man whose skin was completely covered with ink, but he would never be able to find the way again. He wasn't even certain that it wasn't a dream caused by too much wine.  
Of course it was not _all_ a dream because the tattoo was real.  
_And also pretty ugly._  
Guy pulled the curtains to shut out the sunlight that hurt his eyes and he laid back on the bed with a groan.  
He thought that it could be worse.  
Now someone could recognize his body if he was killed.  
He looked again at the tattoo, with a sigh.  
_At least it's a wolf._


End file.
